


Elementary, my dear Gregson

by Brynn_Jones



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-27
Updated: 2018-01-27
Packaged: 2019-03-10 06:13:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13496440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brynn_Jones/pseuds/Brynn_Jones
Summary: Thomas Gregson wakes up in bed next to his ex-wife, confused and out of his time. What follows is a series of cases that have already been solved, a fake relationship and an overbearing father with access to way too much surveillance tech.





	Elementary, my dear Gregson

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my hardworking beta eureka1 :)

**** Gregson was brought out of his slumber slowly, gasping for air. The temperature in the room was a lot higher than he was used to and the dry air felt like sand in his lungs. Mustering up the coordination it took to push off the heavy comforter, he welcomed the air brushing against his pyjama-clad legs.

As he slowly blinked his eyes open and looked around the darkened room, his brain halted. He was lying in his old bed, next to his former wife and it was an understatement to say that after years of sleeping on his own again, it was disorienting. And disconcerting. Cheryl’s breathing was  unnaturally loud; the temperature of the room felt like he’d found himself in hell; and the sudden and insistent ringing of his phone wasn't exactly helping the situation either.

"Tommy?" his wife asked sleepily, shuffling about under the blankets.

Not needing any more prompting, Gregson reached for his phone - more out of habit than any sort of knowledge of what he was doing. He noted confusedly that the cell was also an old one - one he hadn't seen in several years, in fact - but recognising the precinct number, he picked it up.

"Gregson," he grunted.

"Lieutenant," the dispatch woman on the other side of the line greeted him, causing his eyes to narrow at being called the wrong rank, "I have a double homicide for you. Tregannis Biochem, fifty-five Brook Avenue in Deer Park; two of the owners are dead. CSU is on its way to the scene already."

Tommy frowned. Tregannis Biochem? Hadn't he already worked a case like that? If he wasn't mistaken, the brother of the two victims had used poison to try and take control over the family company.

"Right," he said, still mulling over his dilemma. "I'll be right there."

Then, hanging up, he crawled out of the warm bed. He was starting to have a notion of what was going on, though his brain was still refusing to believe it. What did Sherlock always say? When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, though improbable, must be the truth? So either someone was playing an extremely elaborate joke on him - something he wouldn't really put past Holmes if he was being completely honest - or he had suddenly travelled back in time. He didn’t know which was scarier.

"Tommy?" Cheryl mumbled again as he started to dress for work.

"Hmm?" he hmmed, carefully not looking at her. He didn’t really know how to behave around her.

She sighed. "You're still angry, I get it," she huffed resignedly. "I told you I was sorry a million times."

And just like that, Gregson had his answer - not even Sherlock would be as cruel as to play a joke like  _ this  _ on him. He knew for certain the Brit would never make him relive this. It was January 2008, right after he had found out his wife had been cheating on him. Oh, and going by the timing of the Tregannis case, it was a couple days before his past self proved to be an idiot and decided to forgive her.

Finally admitting to himself that he had really and truly travelled back in time, for there was just no other explanation, he steeled himself for what was about to come. This was his second chance at life after all - well, at least at the past few years - and he'd be damned if he was about to blow it. Thinking that Holmes would be ridiculously proud of him for accepting the situation so easily once he’d eliminated all the other possibilities, Tommy steeled himself for what was to come.

Determined, he finished dressing himself, took his side arm from the gun safe in his bedside table, and left the bedroom. He had a murder to solve, and then he had a decision to make. 

Clambering into his car, he went to type the address of the crime scene into his GPS when he realised it was missing. Narrowing his eyes in thought, he tried to remember what had happened to it. It was January 2008, he reminded himself, which meant that his car had been broken into a few days ago on New Year's Eve by a group of drunk teenagers who pawned off both his radio and his GPS system in order to buy booze. Great.

Searching for the address on his phone, he found out he had more or less remembered where the Tregannis Biochem offices were, so he quickly pulled away from the curb and was on his way.

 

_ “He’s in that house over there,” Holmes announced, looking proud of himself. _

_ Tommy squinted at the detective, brushing snowflakes out of his face. “What makes you say that?” he asked once it was clear the Brit wouldn’t elaborate without prompting. _

_ Sherlock gave him a smug look. “Glad you asked, Lieutenant,” he said, his accent thick. “Have a look and notice the difference compared to the neighbouring houses,” he instructed him. _

 

In the end, the Tregannis case had been over almost before it began. Gregson, remembering most of the important information and evidence from the first time around, closed it in thirty six hours - a whole two days earlier that he had done originally. In fact, he was so quick and efficient about it that his colleagues even asked him what was going on. He fed them some line about his mind being fully on the case, because he had made a decision about his cheating wife, and the matter thus stopped bothering him. When he thought the statement over afterwards, he realised he hadn't been lying.

Swinging by his old house when he was sure Cheryl wouldn’t be home, he packed his things and then drove downtown to find a place to sleep. He booked a hotel room, asking the clerk at the front desk not to let anyone contact him unless it was dispatch or someone called Bell, Holmes, or Watson. Sure, he could've just asked the man not to patch through his wife, but he felt a little less petty this way. He'd left her a message on her phone saying where he was staying as not to worry her but that didn't mean he wanted to talk to her.

Now, powering up his laptop, he settled himself on the hotel bed and opened the Internet browser with the intention of searching for his friends. He was going to try and deduce if they had also travelled in time or if he was the only one to find himself in such a pickle.

The first name he googled was Watson, since he figured the search might be over quickly - there wasn't bound to be much about her on the Internet. You could imagine his surprise when the opposite turned out to be true. In fact, there was article after article about how a Doctor Joan Watson was facing severe disciplinary actions for a mistake she’d made during a surgery, which in the end cost the patient his life. A mistake, which happened exactly twenty hours ago - a full day after Tommy had returned to the past. There was no way Joan would have made the same mistake had she remembered the future, so - in conclusion - Watson did not time travel.

Next he tried searching for Marcus. He had to use his access as an NYPD lieutenant to bring up Bell's file, which then didn't really give him any clues. There was nothing suspicious or extraordinary in the younger man's file, which might have actually served as a clue of itself if he’d possessed Sherlock’s brain but as that wasn’t the case, he couldn’t deduce a thing from it. He didn’t know if Marcus would use his potential knowledge of the future to make changes or if he’d make sure to keep everything the same. Gregson wasn't sure about anything, and so he deemed the search inconclusive.

He’d kept Sherlock for last. Gregson figured that the search into his British friend could go either one of two ways - it was either going to be laughably easy to figure out if the man had time travelled or it was going to be completely impossible to determine.

 

_ “I don’t see anything,” Tommy claimed with a shrug, eyes flitting briefly over the row of houses that hemmed the street. It was usually easier to let Sherlock bask in his own brilliance than to take part in his games. _

_ Holmes tilted his head in consideration, scowling. “You didn’t even try,” he complained. “How do you ever expect to learn to my methods if you don’t even try?” _

_ Gregson heaved a sigh. “Can’t you just tell me how you know, so we can get on with it? I thought you had Watson to play these guessing games with.” _

_ “I don’t guess,” the Brit denied predictably. “Neither does Watson,” he added, “not anymore.” _

 

A breaking news article popped up as soon as he typed in the consulting detective’s name. It spoke of an arrest of a dangerous criminal called ‘Moriarty’ who had been caught by a Scotland Yard consultant that had managed to get close to the dangerous woman. Having been proven right - it had been remarkably easy to figure out after all - Gregson quickly searched for Holmes' number and dialled.

"Hello, Captain," the Londoner greeted him, voice chipper, further assuring Gregson he had made the right call.

"Sherlock," he breathed out in relief. "Tell me you have an explanation for this nonsense."

"Not yet," the other man admitted. "I've been a little preoccupied with other matters."

"Moriarty," Gregson guessed.

"Indeed,” the other man agreed. “I can assure you, though, that if there  _ is  _ an explanation, I will find it. I assume that by now you have figured out the two of us are the only people from our immediate circle of friends and acquaintances that went back?"

"Well, I did exclude Watson," Tommy offered somewhat hesitantly, "Marcus was inconclusive."

He could imagine Sherlock rolling his eyes in exasperation. "Well, at least you tried,” allowed the detective. “Though I am disappointed in you, Captain. I would've thought you of all people would figure it out."

Hating the feeling that settled in his gut as Holmes told him he was disappointed, Gregson snapped, "Fine, enlighten me."

Sherlock cleared his throat, before questioning, "Have you looked into his brother?"

Tommy shrugged. "Yeah, he's in prison."

"Yes, and Marcus hasn't visited him in the past couple of days - hasn’t even filed a visitor request form."

Gregson nodded. "Yeah, I know. He told me he was embarrassed that his own brother was a criminal, so he didn’t visit him. What's the catch?" he asked.

"That  _ is  _ the catch," Sherlock insisted. "Marcus has also said on numerous occasions that he regretted never visiting his older brother and that if he had the chance to do it over, he'd change it."

"Oh," Gregson breathed out. "I didn't think of that."

"Clearly," Sherlock muttered.

Tommy shot him an offended look, which was completely ineffective since Holmes couldn’t see him. "Hey! I woke up in bed with my ex-wife; you could cut me a bit of slack."

Holmes sounded unimpressed as he deadpanned, "I woke up next to Moriarty.”

"Oh."

"Yeah..."

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence, before Tommy thought to ask, "So... are you all done over there?"

"What do you mean?" queried a distracted-sounding Sherlock.

"I mean when are you coming back to New York?"

Holmes went silent for a beat. "Well," he drawled, "as far as I know I never left London."

Gregson ignored the sinking feeling in his stomach in favour of further questioning his friend, "Wait, does that mean you don't want to come back?"

Sherlock made a vague noise. "The reason I went the first time around is gone - what with Irene and the drugs," he explained, before continuing, "Also, Watson doesn't remember me and I won't even get to meet her this time around as I don’t intend to need her services. What else is over there for me?"

 

_ Gregson raised an eyebrow, shoving his hands into his coat pockets to warm them up a little. “So what? You’ve finally taught her all there is to know?” _

_ Holmes snorted. “Hardly, but she’s proved more than capable on several occasions. She’s a very apt student,” he added with a meaningful look at Tommy. _

 

"I'm still here," Gregson muttered pathetically. It hadn't even crossed his mind that Sherlock would consider not coming back to New York. In fact, it had felt like such a certainty that he would, that Tommy wasn't prepared to deal with this.

"Gregson?" Holmes asked, impatient.

The lieutenant grunted. “Ehm, something came up. I’ll call you later, okay?”

“Right,” agreed the Brit and hung up on him without so much as a goodbye. Well, that was that then.

Flopping back on the hotel bed, Gregson tried to think back to what had happened right before he woke up in bed with his ex. But straining his brain as hard as he could, he still wasn’t able to come up with anything. He did remember most of everything that had happened in the past couple years - or was it in the future couple of years? - but try as he might, the moments right before the time jump eluded him.

Resolving to work on his memory sometime later, he decided to turn in early, so after a brief shower and a two-minute teeth brushing, he went to sleep. In his last waking moments, he couldn’t help but hope everything would be back to normal once morning came.

He got woken up at six thirty the same way he had been two days ago - by a phone call. 

“Gregson,” he announced himself gruffly, keeping his eyes closed, not even glancing at the caller ID.

“Captain,” the familiar British voice greeted him. “Have you seen the news?”

Blinking his eyes open, he frowned. “No?”

“Turn on the TV then!” the other man insisted.

Gregson heaved his body slowly out of the bed, pulling on a robe in the chill of the air-conditioned room.

Finding the remote control to the ancient hotel room TV, he turned it on. Just as he wanted to ask Holmes which channel he should tune into, the screen flickered on, and it was immediately clear what he was looking for. The news channel was airing a breaking news segment about an enormous blizzard currently raging in New York.

“The blizzard?” he asked the Brit just to make sure, clutching the phone to his ear.

Holmes hmmed in confirmation.

“So you called to what? Make sure I was okay?” Tommy asked his friend, amused.

The eyeroll was almost audible as Sherlock answered him, “Don’t be ridiculous and use your brain.”

Snorting, Gregson turned his gaze back to the TV. “What am I looking for?”

“If I told you, it wouldn’t be fun, now would it?” commented Sherlock.

 

_ Tommy sighed heavily. “Fine,” he finally allowed. “What am I looking for?” _

_ “It wouldn’t be any fun if I just told you,” Sherlock informed him, looking pleased at his reluctant participation. _

_ Gregson huffed but turned to look at the house Holmes had indicated. It looked practically the same as all the other houses - a white picket fence in the front, a couple trees in the front yard covered in a fresh sprinkle of snow, a white facade, brown doors and windows, a red roof… _

_ “Oh,” he exhaled suddenly, his warm breath creating a white cloud of condensation in front of his mouth. _

 

Gregson clenched the phone in his hand a little tighter. “They’re saying it started brewing only two days ago,” he began carefully, “and that there weren’t any indications of it before then.”

“And?” Sherlock prompted.

“Could it have something to do with us travelling back in time?” he suggested incredulously, voicing for the first time what had happened to them.

“It could and it does,” agreed Holmes. “It didn’t happen the first time around.”

“It didn’t? How do you know?”

The Brit made an excited noise. “I’d made up a mnemonic device to remember all significant weather patterns of the last ten years,” he boasted. “There was a last big winter storm in 2006, and there was no blizzard this size in New York until 2009.”

Tommy was sceptical. “Do you actually remember the weather from all around the world?” he asked, eyes narrowed.

“Mostly,” the police consultant said dismissively, which Gregson took to mean ‘not really’.

“Is that going to help you figure out what happened?” he asked instead, feeling a little hopeful.

Holmes hmmed quietly. “Perhaps. I’d probably have to… ehm, fly over to New York,” he finished quickly, before even more hurriedly explaining, “I mean, we were both in the city when it happened, and the blizzard is there, and- But there probably aren’t going to be any flights to JFK…”

Tommy grinned. “Hey, calm down,” he soothed his friend. “I did ask you to come back, didn’t I? I’m looking forward to working with you again,” he assured him, albeit a little presumptuously. 

Sherlock went quiet for such a long time that Gregson had to check if he hadn’t lost the connection - not an unthinkable thing in these weather conditions - before finally speaking up, his voice softer than before, "You still want to work with me? After everything?"

"Of course," the lieutenant blurted out quickly. “Why wouldn’t I?” he asked, genuinely confused.

"Even knowing what I am capable of?” Holmes insisted. “I almost killed Moran; I kicked Oscar's head in; not to mention, I got Marcus shot."

"Even knowing all that," Gregson agreed. "And Marcus wasn't your fault," he added as an afterthought. Even Bell had admitted that once he got over his initial anger.

Holmes clearly didn't believe him though. "You don't have to feel sorry for me," he said. "I'm not on drugs anymore - well, yet - so I won't crumble if you don't hold my hand."

Gregson couldn’t believe the self-consciousness Holmes was showing. "I'm not doing you a favour, Sherlock. I  _ like  _ working with you. In fact, I got so used to it that I don't know how I'm gonna do it without you," he explained, admittedly laying it on a bit thick.

Sherlock wasn’t of a different opinion. "Poppycock," he said. "You are more than capable of working cases on your own. In fact, you just solved one."

"Sherlock-"

"But," the Brit interrupted him. "If you honestly don’t mind working with me, I suppose I could grace you with my presence again. I could even teach you some of my methods if you want - imagine how much better you would be then.” 

 

_ Holmes flapped his right hand at him, motioning for him to go on. “Oh, what?” he demanded when Gregson didn’t continue fast enough. _

_ “The roof,” he pointed out. “There’s no snow on it.” _

_ “Because…” prompted the Brit with another wild hand gesture, his gaze sweeping over the other snow-covered roofs. _

_ “Because,” Gregson repeated slowly, “because the house is warmer than the others?” _

_ Holmes nodded, excitedly swaying on his toes. “And significantly so,” he agreed. “It’s so much hotter, in fact, that all five inches of the freshly fallen snow melted right off, while all the other houses sport a healthy cover.” _

 

Not wanting to examine too closely the immense feeling of relief at his friend's words, Gregson quickly queried, “How long do you think it'll take you to get everything sorted?"

Sherlock snorted. "Why? Are you in a hurry?"

Tommy considered this. "No, not really," he admitted. "I could actually use a bit of time to get my own things in order. I'll need to find a place to live, buy myself a new GPS and maybe even a new phone. This one’s as old as Jesus himself. Oh, and I might want to start looking into a good divorce lawyer; Cheryl sold me down the river the last time this happened."

Holmes hmmed. "Well, I'm going to buy the brownstone from my father this time," he began hesitantly. "So if you want a place to live, I have some free rooms coming."

Raising his eyebrows, Gregson asked, "You have that kind of money?"

The Brit chuckled. "I took on a paying client if you can believe it," he confessed. "A kidnapped pharmaceutical company chemist. I found him in twelve hours and saved the company a couple million pounds. They were very generous."

Tommy chuckled. "You were  _ busy _ ,” he noted with a bit of admiration in his voice. “Good for you, though; you don't have to depend on your father anymore."

"If he sells," Sherlock warned. "So far, I haven't come up with a believable reason for wanting that specific brownstone and not any of the other houses in New York. I don’t want him poking around too much."

"Tell him your girlfriend is demanding that specific one and won't settle for anything different," Tommy suggested. It was a believable excuse as far as he was concerned, since he spoke from experience.

"I don't have a girlfriend," the Brit countered. "She's currently in prison."

Gregson shrugged. "Does he know that?"

Sherlock made a dismissive sound. "Wouldn't work anyway - the cronies he’s gonna send to spy on me would tell him I haven't moved in a woman, which would in turn give dear Morland an excuse for a continued, in-depth surveillance of my activities. I don’t need that kind of bother. Too bad Watson doesn't remember - she might've made the ploy work."

A crazy idea coming to him, Gregson offered, "I could probably make it work too."

Sherlock went quiet, and the copper could've kicked himself - honestly, he should have never opened his big mouth-

"That's brilliant," Holmes finally said, and Gregson felt like he’d got a whiplash. "If you're going to move in anyway, I might just as well tell my father we have a thing. Also, you being a man and a married one on top of that explains why I would want to keep it a secret."

"Uh, right," Tommy stuttered. "I thought you might like the idea," he lied.

Holmes hmmed again. “It has potential,” he said, admiration in his voice. “I’m surprised you’d come up with something so daring. Doesn’t really seem your style.”

Feeling oddly proud, Gregson acted nonchalant. “It was just an idea off the top of my head; I didn’t really think about it.” Well, he wasn’t exactly lying, was he? He had totally not thought through his suggestion, instead blurting it out on instinct. In his defence, Holmes had offered that he could live with him, so…

"So, how long do you think it will take you to deal with your father?" he asked after a beat of silence.

Holmes snorted. “Depends on what sort of mood he'll be in - he's the most capricious man I've ever met. And that's saying something, when you take into account I know a lot of drug addicts."

Wincing at the reminder of Sherlock's addiction, Gregson decided to end the conversation. "Right," he said. "I'll leave you to it then. I have some stuff to sort out too.”

“Right,” Sherlock repeated and once again hung up on him without any sort of goodbye. Tommy would have to teach the man some telephone etiquette one of these days.

 

_ “But… how do you know the owner didn’t just shovel the snow off?” Gregson questioned, determined to challenge Sherlock’s conclusion. _

_ The consultant gave him a disappointed look. “The icicles,” he pointed out. _

_ Tommy focused his gaze back on the offending house. The snowless roof was hemmed by a large number of long, clear icicles, while the other roofs only had a couple of really small ones at most. “I see your point,” he admitted. _

_ “Of course you do,” Sherlock said haughtily. “But you only ever see after the fact. How can you be such a good detective when you lack the basic skills of deduction?” _

_ Offended, Gregson glared at the other man. “Now listen here, Holmes-” _

 

Figuring the snowstorm outside was going to make it impossible for him to do anything, Gregson decided to return to bed. Considering the peculiar situation he found himself in, he thought he deserved a couple hours of downtime.

Sleep didn’t come easily though, his mind whirring at a hundred miles an hour. How was this even possible? Wasn’t time travel a thing of sci-fi films and bad conspiracy theories? And why had only Sherlock and he been influenced - at least as far as they knew?

Making a mental note to ask Holmes if he knew any realistic time travel theories the next time they spoke, he tried to fall asleep again. This time his wayward mind decided to focus on the stupid plan of pretending to be Sherlock’s  _ girlfriend _ . He didn’t know if it was a stroke of genius to suggest it or if it was the worst idea to ever see the light of the day.

Shifting underneath the scratchy hotel blanket in frustration, Gregson gave up on falling asleep naturally and instead walked over to his hastily packed suitcase and pulled out his bottle of sleeping pills. He’d just knock himself out, and maybe the next time he roused, things wouldn’t seem so bad.

His wishes were answered, at least when it came to the weather outside. He was awoken by the loud rattling sounds of a snow plough making its way through the street in front of the hotel. The snow had apparently stopped falling, and according to the news, the weather forecast didn’t seem to have any other surprises in store for the good people of New York. 

He had slept ten hours.

On the other hand, when it came to appeasing the infamous Morland Holmes, it apparently wasn’t going to be all blue skies and rainbows. There was a text from Sherlock on his phone, informing him that the consultant had gone ahead with their plan and fed his father the story of their secret romance. And that while the old coot had agreed to sell the brownstone, he also demanded his son help him with a business matter in return.

‘Sorry to hear that,’ Gregson wrote in reply. ‘Are you gonna do it?’

‘Y,’ came the curt reply. And then a second later, ‘dsnt sEm 2 dodgy 2b fair’

It took him a good few seconds to decipher the message properly - one would think Holmes was a pimply fifteen-year-old from the way he texted. All the more surprising then to hear him speak - his large, formal vocabulary and British accent making him sound like an Oxford professor rather than a former junkie.

‘Do as you think best,’ he wrote back, insolently insisting on proper grammar and punctuation, ‘Call me once you know when you’ll be here. I’ll pick you up at the JFK.’

‘thx hun,’ was the cheeky answer.

 

_ “No matter,” the other man interrupted him, completely dismissing Gregson’s irritation. “Should we go investigate? With a bit of luck, our man isn’t going to be home,” the Brit finished with a slightly manic grin. _

_ Tommy shot him a confused glare. “You’re not serious, Holmes. We’re not breaking into a suspect’s house! Do you want me to lose my job?” _

_ Holmes looked unimpressed. “Oh, please, the department could hardly afford to lose you,” he muttered. “Besides, we’ll have probable cause,” he finished, motioning across the street. _

_ Ignoring the hidden compliment, which Holmes most likely had just used to try and soothe the Captain’s ruffled feathers, he demanded, “Wait, what probable cause?” _

 

Figuring he had quite a bit of time to waste until Holmes called him - an errand for Morland Holmes was hardly going to take just a couple hours - Gregson decided to brave the streets and swing by his old house to pick up the rest of his things. With a bit of luck, Cheryl won’t be at home.

He wasn’t in luck. His wife  _ was  _ at home and she was pissed off.

“Thomas A. Gregson!” she greeted him angrily right as he stepped through the door. “Explain yourself, please!”

“Cheryl,” he sighed tiredly. “I was hoping to avoid this.”

She stared at him incredulously. “Avoid this? Are you kidding me? You just wake up one day and don’t come back home, leaving me a pitiful message about how it’s not working anymore and that you’re at a hotel, and you wanted to avoid this?”

Tommy felt anger bubbling up inside of him as well. “No, Cheryl,” he sneered. “I didn’t  _ just  _ wake up one day and decide to do anything. I woke up one day to find out you’d cheated on me, and I finally decided to bite the bullet and show some self respect - for once.”

“So you’re leaving?” She phrased it as a question, but her face said she already knew the answer.

“Yes,” he confirmed. “I mean, this clearly isn’t working anymore, and I don’t think I can get over what you did.”

His wife’s face crumpled. “But… just a couple of days ago you seemed about ready to forgive me.”

Gregson had nothing to say to that - it was probably the truth. He  _ had  _ forgiven her the first time around, so it was more than likely that he had acted like he was getting over Cheryl’s infidelity before he returned back in time. He wasn’t sure how to explain that, though, so he decided to slightly shift the guilt for his decision onto someone else - Sherlock wouldn’t mind anyway. “I spoke with a friend of mine from England,” he said with a shrug, “and I realised some things.”

Cheryl folded her arms across her chest. “And who is this friend?” she demanded. “She shouldn’t be putting things in your head.”

“ _ He _ ,” Tommy corrected, “didn’t put anything into my head, he just made me see things from a different perspective. You said you felt unappreciated and alone because I was always working, and that’s why you did what you did…” he paused. “I can’t see how I can change that, Cheryl.”

“Of course you can’t,” his wife said bitterly, “when you don’t even try.”

“I tried,” Gregson disagreed. “It’s you who didn’t try hard enough. I wasn’t the one to stray!”

His wife huffed. “How would I know?” she cried. “You spend so much time away from home I wouldn’t even know you were sleeping with other people. This friend of yours from England-”

“Is none of your concern,” Tommy finished for her, unwilling to discuss Sherlock. “I really just came here to get the rest of my things; I didn’t mean to get into all this right now.”

“Oh, really? When would be ideal for you then?” Cheryl asked sarcastically.

Gregson didn’t remember his wife ever behaving like this before - it was ugly. “Listen, honey,” he tried to calm her. “We should both probably calm down a little before we try this again, ok?”

She gave him a half-hearted shrug.

“Can I go and get my things now?” he asked cautiously.

“Sure,” she snapped. “I threw all the stuff I could find into the attic.”

Great, he thought in frustration, all of his clothes and books were now lying in their dusty, dirty, and mouldy attic.

 

_ “The marijuana he’s growing in the attic,” the consultant revealed with a theatrical wave of the hand. “Hence the melting, of course…“ _

_ “Right,” Tommy nodded. “I get it.” _

_ “Well, then, shall we?” Sherlock asked, once again motioning towards the house. _

_ Gregson sighed. “Fine, but we’re not going in unless I see an actual reason, got it?” he demanded forcefully of his friend. _

_ Sherlock just gave him a cheerful grin – looking like a kid on a Christmas morning – and headed off across the street. _

_ Tommy followed him slowly, an exasperated expression on his face. Hopefully, the Brit wouldn’t get him into any trouble. _

 

When he entered his hotel room two hours later, a large trash bag full of his dirty belongings in hand, he was both physically and emotionally drained. He couldn’t quite believe how ugly the woman he used to share the happiest moments of his life with had gotten when things weren’t going her way. She was nowhere near like that when they had split up in the past - no, future.

Flopping down on the bed tiredly, he spared a thought for Joan. She helped him immensely the last time he’d split from Cheryl, just by listening to him and acknowledging his feelings. He really wished he could call her now.

Instead, he had the emotionally constipated Sherlock Holmes at his disposal. Okay, perhaps that wasn’t fair - the consulting detective did actually have feelings as proven by the existence of Irene; he just usually chose to be completely callous.

Still, Tommy supposed that a brief chat over the phone wouldn’t hurt, would it? They were about to become boyfriend and girlfriend anyway, he thought sarcastically.

Picking up his old phone, he dialled the appropriate number.

“I’m not done yet,” the Brit announced as soon as he picked up, huffing in displeasure as something crashed in the background.

“Yeah, I know,” Tommy grunted. “I’m just calling to, I don’t know, check in?”

Holmes paused, the clattering at his end of the line ceasing. “What happened?”

Gregson shook his head. “Nothing, I don’t even know why-” he got interrupted by another crash. “What are you doing?” he asked Holmes suspiciously.

“I’m throwing dead pigs into an empty dustbin lorry,” was the nonchalant answer, the police consultant making it sound like it was a normal thing to do.

“I don’t even know if you’re being serious or if you’re just messing with me anymore,” Gregson complained, settling against the headboard. “Either way, I don’t think I wanna know.”

There was a beat of silence.

“Ok, I do wanna know,” he admitted. “Why  _ are  _ you throwing dead pigs into garbage trucks?”

Holmes made a victorious sound as another loud crash came over the phone. “One specific garbage truck,” he corrected excitedly. “And I’m recording the sounds different-sized pigs make as they hit the bottom. I am comparing them to a recording my father gave me in hopes of determining how big the person was who was being disposed of on the recording.”

Tommy snorted. “Forget I ever asked,” he said. “I don’t want to know why your father has a recording of a body hitting the bottom of a- just forget it.”

Holmes hmmed. “I’ve just solved it anyway,” he claimed. “It was the gardener.”

“Of course it was,” chuckled Gregson, rolling his eyes. “Isn’t it always?”

Ignoring his comment, Sherlock instead queried, “Why did you call?”

Tommy shifted on his bed, trying to make himself more comfortable. “I spoke to Cheryl,” he admitted quietly.

“Oh, how did that go?” Holmes asked, even managing to sound interested.

“It went,” Gregson muttered vaguely. “She chucked my stuff into our dirty attic. I hope there’s a washing machine in that brownstone of yours.”

"Huh,” Sherlock let out. “That doesn't seem much in character for your wife. I remember the first time you split up, it was more or less amenable."

Tommy bit his lip. "Yeah, well... that was  _ her  _ breaking up with me, not me just leaving one day and then calling her to leave a message that it wasn’t working anymore."

"You broke it off over a phone?" asked the Brit in surprise. "That sounds like something  _ I  _ would do."

"In my defence," said the Lieutenant, "she did cheat on me."

"And yet last time you forgave her," Sherlock insisted. "One would think you'd try to make it work this time."

"No reason to put time and effort into a relationship that will crash and burn sooner or later anyway - Cheryl never really got over the fact that my job is demanding. I suppose that if I ever want a relationship again, I'll have to find someone who understands that. Maybe someone who works in the field as well?" he offered, hoping his words didn't come out as suggestive as they sounded in his head.

"I suppose that might work if you're into all that," commented Holmes, apparently not deeming Gregson’s words in any way weird.

"All what?" 

"All the relationship stuff," the consultant explained. "The give and take, the compromises, the useless arguments over nothing."

Tommy shook his head, countering, "The comfort, the familiarity, the sex..."

 

_ They rang the doorbell once they reached the porch, Holmes peering in through a window. _

_ “See anything?” Tommy asked him, pressing the buzzer again. _

_ “No,” denied the younger man. “But then I didn’t really expect to. Our man is careful; he wouldn’t just let anything suspicious lying about.” _

_ “Well, he’s not home,” concluded Gregson when even his third attempt at ringing the doorbell wasn’t met with an answer. “So how do you suggest we get in? You said we’d have probable cause.” _

_ Sherlock nodded, inspecting the windowsill. “And we will,” he confirmed, clapping his hands together and turning to face the Captain. “Give me a boost?” _

 

“You can have all that without the shackles of a committed relationship. Take me, for example. I just had vigorous sex not five hours ago with one of my father’s personal assistants. Granted, he sent her to spy on me,  but I decided to use the situation to both of our satisfaction. She didn’t find out anything, but she certainly didn’t leave disappointed.”

Ignoring the weird feeling in his stomach, Gregson muttered, “I don’t need the details, thank you.” Then after a pause, he continued, “But you must agree that sometimes no-strings-attached sex is just not enough - isn’t that why you pursued Irene?”

Making a disgusted sound, Sherlock quickly dismissed the idea, “She messed with my head, manipulated me into doing what she wanted me to do - I’d hardly consider that a good representation of a relationship.”

Tommy sighed resignedly. “Never mind then, I just thought you might understand my situation for once.”

Holmes scoffed. “I don’t believe Cheryl had any designs on your life.”

“I said, never mind,” the lieutenant repeated forcefully.

The other end of the line went quiet for a moment and then, “I’m sorry.”

Gregson couldn’t believe his ears. “What?”

 

_ “What?” _

_ Sherlock raised his eyebrows at him. “I need a boost,” he repeated. “I have to get to that ledge up there,” he finished, pointing above. _

_ “You’ve got to be kidding,” he exclaimed. “I’m not letting you crawl all over his house.” _

_ Looking a little offended, Holmes countered, “I’m not going to crawl all over, I just need to get my face near that vent up there.” _

_ “Ah,” breathed Tommy in understanding. “Fine, come here.” _

 

“You heard me,” mumbled Holmes. “I think it’s safe to say I’m not very good at this.”

“This being… feelings?” Tommy teased.

Sherlock ignored him. “Anyway,” he said loudly, “now that I’ve solved my father’s riddle, I can start making plans to move to New York. You still on for the flat-share?”

“Huh, yeah, sure,” Gregson agreed, feeling a little awkward. “I’m sleeping in a hotel room right now,” he added, “so I’m actually kind of counting on it.”

“You want me to get you a key, so you can get set early? As long as you keep any changes to Watson’s room, I won’t have a problem,” Sherlock offered generously. “But I have very concrete plans for the rest of the house.”

Rolling his eyes, Tommy asked, “Let me guess, you want it to look exactly the same as what it looked like before.”

Holmes let out a soft scoffing sound. “It’s not sentiment if that’s what you think,” he defended himself. “It’s practical.”

“Of courses it is,” agreed Gregson, though he was a little doubtful practicality was truly Sherlock’s motivation. “And I’d like that key,” he added, accepting his friend’s offer.

“Right, I’ll tell my father to have it delivered,” Holmes promised. “What’s your address?”

Tommy gave it to him and Sherlock immediately hung up. “Great,” he muttered into the dead receiver. “We really need to talk about that.”

Glancing at the hotel room clock, he decided to get a couple hours of sleep before repacking all his stuff. Hopefully, by the time he had everything ready, the key would’ve arrived and he’d be able to move into the brownstone. He still felt a little weird about it - especially since Sherlock was apparently set on calling his new bedroom ‘Watson’s room’ - but he was looking forward to sleeping somewhere comfortable again.

He woke up to the sound of knocking at his door. He dragged himself out of bed slowly, bleary eyed and possibly more tired than he had been before his nap. Opening the hotel room door, he came face to face with a tall, lanky gentleman in a tweed jacket and a necktie.

“Thomas Gregson?” the man asked in an upper-class British accent, going by the haughty tone and posh pronunciation.

“Yeah,” he grunted, blinking at the Brit.

“I am here to deliver a key to your new residence and to offer my service as a chauffeur,” he explained, enunciating carefully as if to make sure the dumb American understood him.

Tommy accepted the key with a grateful nod. “Thank you, but I don’t think I’ll be needing your services - I haven’t even packed up all my stuff.”

The gentleman’s face stayed impassive. “I am of course willing to assist you with that as well,” he offered.

Remembering Sherlock’s words about Morland’s spying, he declined, “Thank you, but I think I’ve got it.”

“Are you sure, sir?” the Brit insisted.

“Yeah, I’m sure. I have my own car downstairs, so you don’t have to worry about me,” he answered, a little bit of attitude entering his voice.

It took him another two tries to properly get rid of the man, but he managed in the end. It was only after he was alone again that he realised the guy hadn’t even introduced himself. 

“Bastard,” Gregson muttered.

He spent the next fifteen minutes packing his stuff - not really because he had that much to pack but mainly because he was taking his sweet time. He didn’t even realise he was stalling until he caught himself rearranging the three shirts in his bag for the fourth time.

“Fuck,” he breathed out, looking around the hotel room. He wasn’t even sure why he was stalling; it wasn’t that he was nervous about the move - the brownstone feeling familiar despite never having spent much time inside. Making an executive decision to stop dilly-dallying and move it, he picked up his stuff and then resolutely left the room. 

He halfheartedly checked for any people following him as he drove to the brownstone but didn’t sweat it too much - they knew where he was going anyway.

Pulling up in front of the brownstone felt like going back in time, which was a ridiculous notion, since he already  _ was  _ in the past and, if anything, returning to Holmes’ house should’ve felt like moving towards the future.

He opened the front door with the key he had been given, pretending not to notice the suspicious blue van - which was conveniently big enough to contain surveillance equipment as well as a person or two - parked across the street from his new home. Making his way slowly into the living room, Tommy set his bags down next to a comfortable looking, but unfamiliar, sofa and then flopped down on it.

The decor of the house was a lot different from what he remembered - the colours were lighter, the furniture more modern, and the floor uncluttered. He also wasn’t worried he’d catch a deadly disease from one of Sherlock’s experiments. Making a mental note to speak to his new roommate about some household rules and polite hygiene habits as well, he leaned back in his seat, closing his eyes.

He didn’t realise he had fallen asleep again until the sound of his ringtone brought him out of a hazy dream.

“Wha?” he mumbled, scrambling to pick up the ringing device, barely noticing his surroundings. “Gregson,” he grunted into the phone once he’d picked it up, rubbing at the crick in his neck with his free hand.

“Are you at the brownstone?” came a quick question.

Tommy rolled his eyes. “Hello, Holmes. Thank you, I’m fine-”

“Yeah, yeah, niceties all around,” Sherlock interrupted him. “So,  _ are  _ you at the brownstone? Because it’s been hours, and you should be there already. Did my father’s lackeys follow you?”

Sighing, the cop answered, “Wasn’t necessary; they know the address. Someone was already parked in front of the house when I arrived.”

“Vultures,” hissed Holmes. “You should probably search the house and get rid of any recording devices, bugs, and cameras they planted. I had to basically fumigate the place the last time,” he quipped. 

Gregson suppressed the urge to roll his eyes again. “Yeah, right,” he mumbled skeptically, “I’ll get right on that.”

Holmes scoffed. “I see you’re not taking it seriously,” he commented haughtily. “The last time there even was a camera above the bathroom mirror though.”

Frowning, the policeman heaved himself up from the comfortable couch. “If you say so,” he retorted, though he was already on his way to the bathroom. To his immense surprise, it didn’t take him even a minute to find the little planted device. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he breathed out.

“Ha! I told you so,” came the exuberant exclamation over the phone.

 

_ “Ha!” the consultant exclaimed smugly once he stood on the aforementioned ledge, sniffing at the vent. “I told you.” _

_ “What did you tell me?” _

_ Sherlock grinned. “We have probable cause because the aroma coming out of this thing is definitely not from an herbal tea.” _

_ “You can smell it?” asked Gregson, not sure whether to believe his pathological liar of a friend. “The weed?” _

_ Holmes looked down at him. “You can climb up here and smell for yourself,” he offered. “But I assure you, it’s marijuana - I am very familiar with the smell.” _

 

“You really enjoy saying that, don’t you?” muttered Gregson, shaking his head slightly.

“Well, I do get to say it quite often,” boasted Sherlock, not really answering the question. “I can tell you where else you can find some of my father’s housewarming gifts,” he offered.

Still staring at the camera in his hand, Tommy nodded numbly. “Yeah,” he mumbled, wondering what he had got himself into. “That would be great.”

In the end, it took him well over two hours to find everything. Sherlock assured him that when he arrived, he would make another sweep but that it seemed he had managed to find everything. Glaring at the heaping pile of electronics on the living room floor, Tommy certainly hoped so.

“When are you arriving anyway?” he asked his friend. “I thought you said you were done with your father’s little problem? You know, the garbage truck and the pigs...”

Sherlock hmmed. “I’m just tying up a few loose ends, but I’m basically ready to board my plane. My ticket is for the flight at three-fifteen, so I should be in New York at some point after eleven,” he informed him, words slurring a little.

“I’ll pick you up at the airport,” Gregson immediately offered.

Holmes chuckled into the phone. “You don’t have to take this charade so seriously,” he told him in what he probably thought of as a reassuring tone.

Ignoring the way his stomach clenched uncomfortably at the word ‘charade’, Tommy tried to regain his composure. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he grunted. “I would pick you up even if we weren’t- you know.” He didn’t dare say out loud that they were pretending to date in case he had missed a bug.

“All right, then,” Sherlock agreed. “I’ll see you in a couple of hours. Don’t call me till then unless it’s an emergency - I intend to use the free time I have to catch up on sleep; I am so tired I think I saw an actual brachiosaurus in a neon green tutu a couple minutes ago.”

Gregson laughed. “Yeah, I’ve been doing nothing else but sleeping this past couple of days it feels like. The travel must’ve taken a lot out of us.”

Holmes made a contemplative noise. “That makes sense, I haven’t really rested for more than a couple minutes at a time ever since I woke up in London.”

“That explains the tutu,” Tommy said in a chiding tone, smiling. “Go and have some sleep, Sherlock, I’ll be at JFK to pick you up.”

“Okay,” his friend confirmed, already sounding half-asleep. “Love you too,” he mumbled, and before Gregson could react in any way, the consultant hung up.

Staring at his phone, the cop felt his heart thudding violently in his chest. What the fuck? What kind of game was the damned Brit playing with him? It was one thing to pretend they were lovers, so that Morland would leave them alone - however flimsy that excuse was - but it was a completely different thing to say things like that in a private conversation. Didn’t Sherlock understand the distinction? Didn’t he realise how uncomfortable he had just made their whole situation?

Taking a deep breath to calm down, Gregson tried to apply reason. Maybe Holmes wasn’t even aware of what he’d said; he was so tired he had been hallucinating after all. Or maybe someone had been listening in on their conversation after all?

Or maybe, Tommy thought in quiet horror, Sherlock had lied to him, and the hallucination wasn’t due to sleep deprivation but because the Brit was high. Surely, travelling through time was a traumatic experience that could mess up an addict’s brain?

Immediately dialling Sherlock’s number, he called the man back.

“I seriously hope this is an emergency,” the consulting detective grunted when he finally picked up. “Life or death, preferably.”

Tommy didn’t beat around the bush. “Are you high?” he asked, tone serious.

There was a long silence on the other end, and Gregson thought the worst. Here it was - Sherlock had relapsed again.

“Gregson?” Holmes asked finally, voice hesitant but sober.

“Sherlock,” he said tightly.

The sound of a throat being cleared and then, “I’m not high.”

The cop let out a relieved sigh, though he still asked, “Are you sure? I just- after what you said about the tutu and then the… the other thing.” He paused. “I was worried you might have relapsed because of what happened - I mean, travelling like that is pretty traumatic.”

Sherlock huffed. “If I were anyone else, probably,” he admitted haughtily. “But since I have returned to a time when I wasn’t addicted at all, I’m great.”

Gregson considered this for a moment and was almost ready to accept Sherlock’s argument, when he realised something. “Wait,” he said. “That doesn’t add up. I know we’re clearly in our old bodies - I mean, the state of my hair speaks for everything - but we both remember what happened in the future.”

“So?” the younger man questioned in a bored voice.

“So, our brains are most likely older than we are, aren’t they?” he explained, a little unsure of his deductions. “And isn’t addiction mainly a matter of the brain?”

A break of silence followed his statement.

“Sherlock?”

The Brit chuckled drily, not really sounding all that amused. “Just my luck,” he said quietly, “that you’d use your brain now.”

“Does that mean you  _ did  _ relapse?” Gregson asked carefully, ignoring the jibe at his intelligence. “I mean, it would be understandable but-”

“I didn’t,” Holmes interrupted him, saving Tommy from any more empty assurances. “You are right that the brain is mainly what gets influenced by any chemicals you abuse but, going by the way I’m feeling, it appears as if my whole nervous system has not been compromised. This is clearly my younger body as I’m missing some of my tattoos, and I guess that most of my nervous system is younger as well. I’m not nearly as high-strung and jittery as I would otherwise be, I think.”

“So you’re dealing ok?” he queried.

“Yeah, I don’t feel as dependant as I used to,” Sherlock disclosed quietly. “The worst of it never happened in this timeline - Irene is in the nick and not thought dead, so I didn’t have a reason to hit rock bottom.”

Tommy nodded, though Sherlock couldn’t see him. “But you still know what it’s like.”

Snorting, the Brit answered, “I still remember what it feels like to be constantly high on cocaine and other pleasant stuff; if that’s what you mean, that hasn’t changed. I may not be physically addicted anymore - or yet - but mentally... yeah.”

 

_ “Ok,” Gregson allowed. “Come back down and we’ll get a look inside. I assume you’ll pick the lock, so I don’t have to kick it in and then pay for the damage?” _

_ Sherlock jumped down elegantly, landing in a crouch, before pulling a lockpick kit out of his coat pocket. “You assume correctly,” he replied jokingly, sticking the hook pick into the lock along with a steep-angle, half-diamond pick.  _

_ A couple seconds later, the lock clicked softly, and Sherlock gave him a pleased grin. “Seven seconds,” he boasted. “That’s one of the better times. Especially for an addict who’d just got a whiff of marijuana.” _

 

“So you’re still an addict,” Tommy concluded, feeling a little sad for his friend.

Holmes hmmed. “Yeah, with the difference that I can’t really go around telling people that - not only because I don’t want to discredit myself again but also because I don’t actually have the necessary history to claim severe addiction. I haven’t fallen to the very bottom in this timeline,” he finished in a tired voice.

Gregson bit his lip. “You could still go to meetings, though, right?” he asked carefully. “I mean, they’re anonymous.”

“Nothing’s really anonymous these days, you know that,” Sherlock objected. “I’d rather not deal with the addict community in New York again if it’s all the same to you.”

Not feeling that was the best decision, but not willing to argue the point, Tommy hmmed in agreement. “Well, whatever you decide, I’ll always be here to talk,” he offered. “Might help.”

Sherlock went silent for a moment before yawning loudly. “Thanks,” he said quietly, then quickly continued, “but now I have to go to sleep. Did you know that sleep deprivation raises the risk of relapse by thirty percent?” Then he hung up on him.

“Asshole,” Tommy swore, frowning at the phone. “I know you just made that up!” Seriously, he’d get the man bloody lessons in polite human interaction. It was only now, staring at the mobile in his hand, that the cop realised they had somehow completely glossed over the love proclamation.

Damn Brit.

Deciding to use the last day of order and quiet, he took his bags of clothes and carried them up to Wats- to his new room. Dropping the bags next to the bed, he let the nostalgia wash over him. He had noticed it before, when he was here to get rid of a camera and two audio recorders, but it only really hit him now that the bedroom looked exactly like it used to when Watson had lived here. The doctor hadn’t changed a thing when she moved in, and Gregson had to wonder if she’d ever really felt at home at the brownstone.

One thing was for sure, he’d have to make some changes if he wanted the room to be his and not just a weird shrine to a person who didn’t even exist in this timeline - at least not like they remembered her. He’d go out and buy some new linens and drapes the first chance he got, maybe add a nightstand or a desk to make it seem like he had his shit together.

And maybe, he’d even splurge on a small fridge, where he could keep his food experiment-free. Or better yet, he’d persuade Sherlock to buy them a big one, so they could have a fridge only for food and one dedicated to the eccentric man’s experiments.

Walking over to the widow, Gregson noticed the blue van was still parked where he had last seen it. Nosy Brits.

Sighing, Tommy looked around cluelessly, grasping for something to do. His gaze fell on the discarded bag full of his dirty clothes and he sighed again, more heavily this time. Well, he supposed that he might as well locate the washing machine and do some of his laundry - if he could figure out how the damned thing worked.

It took him an embarrassingly long ten minutes to finally press the buttons in the right order and get the load started - his wife was probably somewhere laughing at him. He had found the washing machine in the basement, next to a top of the line dryer and, surprisingly, a mangle.

His phone rang.

“Gregson,” he said without looking at the caller ID.

“Lieutenant, we have a murder,” came the clear voice of the dispatcher. “I think,” she added as an afterthought.

“You think?” he asked, curious.

“Well, we have a really big bloodstain on a carpet,” the woman explained. “which, if it all came from one person, definitely means a murder. No body, though, just a couple neighbours who heard an argument.”

Gregson frowned, trying to remember if he’d had a case like this the first time around. “The owner of the house?” he queried.

The dispatcher hmmed in negation. “No one was at the scene when patrol answered the 911 call for a domestic. The house belongs to a certain Eduardo Lucas.”

Tommy hmmed. “Give me the address, I’ll be right there.”

 

He remembered the case as soon as he stepped into the house. The crime scene was downstairs in the spacious living room, where a large pool of blood was seeping into the square carpet that covered the middle of the floor. He recalled that they had found the victim’s body a week after, a knife in the chest - courtesy of Lucas’ ex-wife, who had taken offence to his new relationship.

Inspecting the crime scene, he realised something was different though - the stain was in a different place than it had been the first time around. He could clearly remember the pool of blood being in the top right corner of the carpet, while now it was in the top left. How had that happened? Surely the time shift - or whatever it was - wouldn’t influence things in such a peculiar way?

There were changes that he could blame on the time travel, though. He wasn’t called to the crime scene the first time around, because he had still been finishing up the paperwork on the Tregannis murders. Instead, he was asked to work on it once Lucas’ body had been found.

Remembering a little detail from the initial report, Tommy walked around the room once, carefully stepping on the wooden floorboards that weren’t covered by the carpet. He didn’t see anything suspicious, so he decided to wait for CSU to be done with the place, before continuing with his examination.

Once the technicians finally left two hours later with the promise that they would come back tomorrow, Tommy glared at the carpet they had left behind. Lifting up one of the rug’s corners, he peeked underneath. Then, deciding that wouldn’t do, he dragged the whole carpet away before inspecting the newly uncovered wooden floor carefully. It didn’t take him long to find the loose floorboard. Prying it open, he noticed there was an off-white envelope lying in the space underneath. He smirked. When the CSU had got to it last time, the compartment was already empty.

Checking his watch to see if he still had time to stop by the office before he had to pick up Sherlock, he reckoned he still had about an hour and a half until he had to worry about braving the Belt Parkway traffic.

He drove to the office, taking the letter with him with the intention of reading it later on when he had time. In the end it wasn’t meant to be, though; as soon as he sat down at his desk, two brunet men in black suits knocked on the door to his office and entered without being invited. 

“Lieutenant Gregson,” one of them said, flashing a leather case with CIA credentials at him.

Tommy forced himself not to react in any suspicious way - which was probably suspicious by itself, but he was in no state to play high-level games at the moment - and nodded in acknowledgment. God knew what bone the agents had to pick with him; it could be anything from his recent change of address to his impromptu travel through space and time.

“We’re from the Central Intelligence Agency,” the suit continued unnecessarily. “We’ve gotten word that you are in possession of an item of national security.”

Wait, what? “Uh, sorry?” he questioned, looking from one agent to the other.

The guy who was doing all the talking gave him an unimpressed look. “We’d like to have it,” he prompted.

Tommy cleared his throat. “Sure,” he allowed magnanimously, “if you tell me what it is I’m supposed to have.”

The agent who had been quiet until then snorted in barely hidden amusement. “I believe you have it in your pocket in an evidence bag,” he said. “The letter you found is not something you should’ve ever laid your hands on.”

Quickly pulling the offensive item out of his pocket and sliding it across his desk, he vowed, “I didn’t read it.”

“Good,” the first guy said harshly. “You won’t mind signing an NDA then, will you?” he asked, the lilt of his voice indicating it was more of a threat than a suggestion.

Tommy nodded quickly, not really wanting to mess with the CIA - that’s something Sherlock would’ve done - but he- 

“Fuck,” he breathed, perturbed that the full weight of the CIA would come crashing down on him because of his nosy friend. At the raised eyebrows of the two suits, he continued, “My, uh... friend, _ lover _ , is a consulting detective, and he’s really good with deductions. I’m afraid he’ll probably figure it out.” 

“Well, in your best interests,” the first guy growled, stepping closer and swiping the letter from Tommy’s desk. “You’d better hope he doesn’t.”

Irritated by being constantly threatened, Tommy scowled. “Yeah, well, you try keeping something from him - so far he’s even managed to figure out every single thing I have wanted to keep from him.”

The second agent put a calming hand on his colleague’s shoulder, giving Gregson a patient look. “And the name of this  _ friend _ ?”

Running a hand through his thinning hair, the lieutenant disclosed, “Sherlock Holmes.”

Both CIA agents got a look of recognition on their faces. “Ah,  _ him _ ,” the more talkative and agitated of the two said. “We’ll just have him sign an NDA too, then,” he concluded with a determined nod of the head.

After that was settled, it took him ten minutes to skim through the contract - making sure the sentence for breaking it was jail time and not something as ridiculous as beheading - sign, and finally send the agents on their way. Then, looking at his watch, he swore, “Fuck. I’m gonna be late.”

Quickly putting on his winter jacket, he hurried out of the station. With a bit of luck, the traffic near JFK wouldn’t be that horrid.

 

_ “Great, now let’s go in,” Tommy suggested, sliding the front door open. “Mr. Gallagher? This is the police!” he called out. _

_ Sherlock threw him a look. “He’s not home.” _

_ Tommy rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I know, but I still have to announce myself.” _

_ Shrugging, the consulting detective stepped inside, throwing over his shoulder, “I wouldn’t have told on you.” _

_ “Just walk, Holmes.” _

_ Gregson followed after the detective as the man led the way into the house. _

 

Fifty minutes later, he frustratedly hit the steering wheel with his fists as he stood stuck in a traffic jam on Belt Parkway. His phone chimed, indicating he’d got a message.

‘jst landed,’ it read in Sherlock’s usual text message shorthand - easily discernible for once.

Tommy pressed call, instead of wasting time typing out a reply.

“Yeah?” Holmes answered as he picked up, sounding bored. Or maybe just tired; Tommy couldn’t discern between the two.

“I’m stuck in traffic,” he told his friend, “but I should be there in another ten minutes.”

Holmes made a dismissive sound. “I’ll just sit here and try to deduce the occupations of the people going by then,” he informed him.

Gregson sighed. “Yeah, just don’t offend anyone, please? I had a really stressful day, and I don’t need you adding to it.”

The consulting detective let out an interested, “Ah?”

Not wanting to break the NDA barely an hour after he’d signed it, Gregson took a page from Sherlock’s book and just hung up. The Brit would get over it.

Avoidance proved to be a successful technique, because once he finally made it to the airport, Sherlock was otherwise occupied.

“That fat lady over there is clearly a debt advisor,” he was saying as they moved towards the exit, towing Sherlock’s two small suitcases.

“Shh!” Tommy hissed. “She’s gonna hear you.”

Holmes threw him a confused look. “What’s so offensive about being a debt advisor?”

Gregson paused. “What? That’s not what-” he cut himself off. “Forget it.” 

Sherlock shrugged. “So,” he began excitedly, “did you ever hear of the Matthildur case?”

Intrigued despite knowing the conversation would probably just end up stroking the other man’s ego, Tommy answered, “No, what happened?”

Happy to have an interested audience, Sherlock explained, “It happened in Iceland during World War Two. A local woman named Matthildur disappeared during a snowstorm that had taken the lives of several British soldiers. She was thought to have run away from her husband Jakob, but some people swore he had killed her and then lied about her leaving.

“That would be a valid theory, of course,” he allowed, “if the locals’ reasoning wasn’t completely flawed. They thought that just because Jakob drowned while fishing at sea, it meant Matthildur’s ghost had exacted revenge.”

Gregson snorted. He himself had heard a similar sort of nonsense during his years on the job, and it never got less bizarre. Some people just lacked common sense, he reckoned, or they were still naive enough to believe in karma. 

Sherlock gave him a quick smile. “I know, ridiculous,” he agreed. “Nevertheless, her body was never discovered, which gave people all the opportunity they needed to speculate.”

Shaking his head, Tommy asked, “Where did you hear about it?”

“I read a monograph about criminal cases in Europe that remain unsolved because of the war. It was competently written - I could lend it to you, if you want to read it,” the consultant told him.

The lieutenant nodded. “Thanks, that’d be great.”

“Anyway,” Holmes continued, preening a little. “I just solved it during my plane ride.”

The American scoffed. “Yeah, right.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow challengingly. “She was murdered by her husband and then buried in a grave with an old lady that died around the same time,” he stated, seemingly completely sure of his deductions.

“How can you possibly know that?” Tommy questioned skeptically. “Have you ever even been to Iceland?”

“Nope,” Holmes said airily, popping the ‘p’ loudly. “But I did extensive research over the plane’s Wi-Fi and found all the necessary information to determine what had happened.”

“I don’t get it,” complained Gregson with a furrow to his brow. “You said the theory about the husband killing her was bogus.”

His friend waved a frustrated hand in front of his face. “No!” he exclaimed. “Don’t you ever listen? I said that the  _ reasoning  _ was flawed, not the theory itself.”

“Right, you’re right,” Tommy admitted, replaying the other man’s words in his head. “You did say that. Okay, so what exactly did you find out?”

Holmes seemed mollified as he continued with his narration, “Jakob sometimes helped out as a gravedigger and was actually the one to dig a grave for the old lady I mentioned - it’s not a stretch to imagine him burying his wife in the same hole.”

“True,” Gregson allowed. “But what motive would he have? Did they have problems?”

“What marriage doesn’t have problems?” Sherlock quickly dismissed Tommy’s query. “I believe I said it once before but it bears repeating - marriage is an unnatural arrangement which forces its participants into an unhealthy monogamy. An accretion of petty fights and resentful compromises which, not unlike Chinese water torture, slowly transforms both parties into howling, neurotic versions of their former selves.”

The lieutenant snorted. “My god, you actually know that speech word for word, don’t you?”

“Probably,” Sherlock shrugged. “That’s besides the point anyway, Matthildur was having an affair.”

“Oh, and who told you that?” he inquired.

“No one told me that,” Holmes denied, sounding offended. “I deduced it.”

Still skeptical, Tommy continued the banter, “From an aeroplane seat thousands of miles away?”

“From an aeroplane seat thousands of miles away, with Internet access,” Sherlock corrected. “I found out that Matthildur and her neighbour Ezra left town one weekend when Jakob was out at sea and paid for a single hotel room in the next town over.”

Gregson sighed. “Ok, that sounds pretty damning,” he admitted. “You’re right.”

Sherlock smirked, self-satisfied. “I often am.”

_ “Well, you were definitely right,” Gregson admitted, looking around the large space of the attic that was almost entirely filled with pots upon pots of… well, pot. _

_ “I often am,” Holmes boasted, leaning down to closely inspect one of the plants. “These are surprisingly healthy,” he commented. “I wouldn’t have expected that of Mr Gallagher.” _

_ Tommy copied him, leaning down and taking a whiff. “And potent,” he added. _

_ The Brit nodded once in agreement. “Yes, the smell seems to be a little overwhelming.” _

 

As soon as they arrived at the brownstone, Holmes was off to search for any remaining recording or listening devices. Tommy shook his head exasperatedly but didn’t comment since he didn’t want to have to constantly watch what he said in his own home for fear of surveillance. 

“You want something to eat?” he called after his friend instead, walking over to the kitchen. Then, realising they didn’t have any groceries, he followed it by offering, “I could order us some take out?”

“Sure, whatever you want,” Sherlock called back from somewhere upstairs. “I probably won’t eat much anyway.”

Rolling his eyes, Gregson pulled out his old phone. “You have to eat, Sherlock,” he chided. “Don’t they say that if you’re hungry, you’re more susceptible to relapse?”

“Bollocks,” was the quick answer.

Tommy frowned. “No, I’m pretty sure I read it somewhere,” he insisted.

Holmes came down the stairs, a crushed-to-pieces camera in hand. “Why were you reading about addiction?” he questioned, a slight sneer on his face.

The policeman looked him dead in the eye. “Because one of my closest friends is an addict,” he told him, face serious.

Snorting, Sherlock waved a hand dismissively. “As far as I know, I’m the only addict you-” he cut himself off, startled at his realisation. “Oh.”

“Yeah, ‘oh’,” Tommy repeated, giving his friend a pointed look. “So will you eat?”

Holmes narrowed his eyes at him. “Are you trying to emotionally manipulate me? Because, let me tell you, after all of my father’s attempts, I am pretty much immune to it.”

Gregson sighed in exasperation. “I’m not trying to manipulate you, Sherlock. You’re my friend and I care about you,” he told the man, basically pouring his heart out. “So when the food comes, you’ll sit your arse down and eat.”

Sherlock stared at him for a long while, before nodding slowly. “Okay,” he agreed quietly.

Shocked at the Brit’s acceptance, he questioned in suspicion, “What’s the catch?”

Huffing a short laugh, Holmes answered with a flap of the wrist, “No catch.” Then, after a moment of consideration, he added, “Just don’t order fish.” and left the room.

Gregson contemplated doing just that, before chickening out and ordering two servings of Thai curry with soft shell crab and fried rice. He then went in search of his wallet, so he could pay for their food when it came. Sherlock probably didn’t have any American dollars on him anyway.

When they sat down to eat half an hour later, the mood was a little strained and Tommy couldn’t help but think it was the result of his impromptu confession. It was one thing to pretend a relationship to get Holmes’ father off their backs, but it was another thing completely to talk about your sappy feelings for your friend.

Searching for something to talk about that would involve neither Morland Holmes nor Tommy’s unfortunate habit of wearing his heart on his sleeve, he asked, “So, you figured it out yet?”

Raising his eyebrows in question, Sherlock made a prompting sound.

“The time travel,” he explained. “You figured out how we suddenly appeared in the past with no one else being any wiser?”

Holmes swallowed a mouthful of curry. “It appears we’ve somehow slipped through a crack - so to say - and landed either in a different timeline or in the actual past.”

His brow furrowing, Gregson asked, “What’s the difference?”

Sherlock speared a piece of meat. “If we’re in a different timeline, it means the other one is still continuing on somewhere out there,” he explained. “If we’ve travelled back into our own past though, it means we’re changing the future.”

Trying to wrap his brain around it all, Tommy queried, “Wouldn’t there be two of us then? Two of me and two of you, that is?”

Holmes shrugged. “In both cases,” he admitted before going on, “but going by your hair, we didn’t travel bodily.”

“As opposed to…?” Gregson prompted.

“I don’t know,” Sherlock huffed. “I’m not an expert on time travel - in fact,  _ nobody  _ is since, as far as anyone knows, time travel is possible only in theory!”

Tommy lifted his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Okay, geesh, calm down,” he told his friend. “I get it, you have no clue what happened.”

Sherlock shot him a glare but didn’t deny it.

“So what do we do?” Gregson asked after a minute of silence. “Do we somehow attempt to go back?”

Holmes gave him a considering look. “Do you want to?”

Imagining the empty apartment with a single bed, the grey in his hair, the way Sherlock had been struggling… Gregson found himself shaking his head. “Not really.”

Sherlock hmmed. “Good,” he murmured. “There’s probably not a way to go back anyway. We’re like water that has been washed down the drain; there’s no way back up unless you want to make a big mess.”

 

_ “The effect too,” Tommy proclaimed as he wobbled slightly, looking around. “The fumes must be getting to me - the room looks all warped and swirly.” _

_ Holmes narrowed his eyes. “Weed doesn’t work like that,” he explained. “The room is actually swirling.” _

_ Gregson gave him a skeptical look. “No, I’m pretty sure we’re just high from breathing the air in here.” _

_ Sherlock snorted. “What you smell are the terpenes - you know, the stuff that gives herbs their aroma - it’s not hallucinogenic.” _

_ Tommy wobbled. “So things are really spinning?” he asked in disbelief. _

 

After dinner, they ended up sitting in front of the hearth, the fire quietly crackling away. Tommy opened up a book he had been planning to read for years, while Sherlock pulled three large sheets of a chain-link fence out of somewhere and began organising his collection of padlocks, hanging them up.

It was around half past one at night that Tommy decided to finally retire. “You gonna be up much longer?” he asked his friend, who somehow still looked fresh.

The Brit hmmed in confirmation, not even lifting his eyes from his expansive collection.

“Right.” Gregson hesitated. “Night then,” he told Sherlock quietly and ascended the stairs to go to his room. He was tired again, despite having slept the better part of the last week, and he was looking forward to burrowing into the soft sheets of his bed.

He was just about to go under when Holmes suddenly burst into his room, arms flailing and an eager expression on his face.

“Wha?” Tommy mumbled tiredly, sounding a little drugged with sleep.

Sherlock flopped next to him onto the bed. “What letter?” he asked him, raising his brows.

Gregson was confused. “What?” he asked again, squinting at his friend as his brain failed to catch up.

“What letter did the CIA forbid you to talk about?” the younger man specified. “I want to know everything you can remember.”

Tommy barely managed to suppress an eyeroll. “Sherlock,” he sighed, “the point of the NDA was to not disclose anything.”

The detective snorted dismissively. “Your CIA pals stopped by and had me sign one too, so you can tell me.”

Gregson narrowed his eyes - which immediately made him want to go back to sleep - before opining, “I don’t think the point of having you sign it was for you to start digging.”

“Oh please,” Holmes drolled. “They clearly have a problem and they’d be stupid not to want my help, so gimme.”

Resigning himself to not being able to go straight back to sleep, Gregson sat up in his bed, clutching the blanket to his chest. “What do you want to know?” he sighed.

"Everything you can remember," Holmes told him. "What kind of envelope it was, what was written on it, how thick it was, what it smelled like-"

"Smelled?" Tommy interrupted him. "Why the hell would I smell it?"

Sherlock shot him a slightly irritated look. "Why wouldn't you? Do you miss out on clues on purpose or are you just so st-"

"Sherlock!" the older man interrupted him again. "If you want me to tell you anything, you'd better not finish that sentence."

Holmes looked like he was childishly going to finish it anyway - despite the warning - but seemed to experience a change of heart at the very last moment. "Fine," he muttered, "tell me what you can remember."

It didn't take long for Tommy to recount everything he knew - both about the envelope and his case - as there really wasn't much. Holmes seemed a little dissatisfied with the lack of information but wisely didn't make any more demeaning comments.

When they were done, Holmes yawned. "Oh, look at the time," he commented, glancing at Tommy's alarm clock. "Why aren't you asleep?"

Gregson gaped at him. "You're not serious," he demanded incredulously. "You woke me up!"

Holmes seemed to consider it for a moment, before shaking his head and jumping off the bed. "Prove it," he called as he left the room. "I'm off to bed; I suggest you do the same."

Tommy stared at the empty doorway of his bedroom - and seriously, Sherlock could’ve at least closed the bloody door - for several long minutes before his brain finally caught up. "Dickhead," he mumbled as he settled back into a sleeping position. “Absolute dickhead.”

It felt like the second his eyes closed, he was getting woken up again - his alarm clock blaring insistently. Checking the time, he realised that it really was nine in the morning, and he had been asleep for approximately five hours.

He was gonna kill his roommate. 

He had new-found respect for Watson for being able to put up with Holmes for so long. He had spent a single night in the same house as the man and was already debating the pros and cons of self-induced defenestration. Or - even better - throwing Holmes himself out of the window.

He wished he was at least getting something out of it, but as it was, all he had was a fake boyfriend and a major headache.

He padded his way into the hallway bathroom, rubbing at bleary eyes. He brushed his teeth, took a leak, and showered quickly before descending the stairs. Sherlock was already at the kitchen table, an empty carton of milk in front of him and typewritten papers strewn everywhere.

“So,” Tommy asked, “no milk?”

Sherlock hmmed noncommittally, not bothering to lift his eyes from what he was reading.

Getting a little frustrated, Gregson reached over for the carton, whacking the Brit over the head with it.

“Hey!”

“I asked you a question, Holmes,” the lieutenant explained. “I know it’s probably out of the reach of your capabilities, but I demand at least a little bit of respect if we are to live together.”

Sherlock stared at him for a long while. “All right,” he finally drawled slowly. “Sorry?”

Gregson sighed. “Right. You leave me any tea, or are we out of that too?”

The consultant shook his head. “I didn’t even touch the stuff,” he assured him. “Though I wouldn’t really call it tea,” he continued. “It has ‘forest fruit’ written on it.”

Tommy raised his eyebrows. “Yeah, it’s a fruit tea.”

Sherlock scrunched up his nose. “That sounds… unpleasant.”

Gregson shrugged, filling a kettle with some water, so he could make himself some ‘unpleasant’ fruit tea. “Well, I’m not gonna pour it down the drain just because you only drink English Breakfast.”

 

_ “I think ‘swirling’ is the better term,” Sherlock theorised. “Look over there into the far corner,” he pointed with his arm, “it looks like water going down a drain.” _

_ “Apart from the fact that there is no water,” Tommy noted as he watched the swirling air in disbelief. “I’m totally seeing things,” he muttered to himself. “Maybe I’m dreaming.” _

_ Holmes shot him a quick look before returning his gaze to the interesting fata morgana in front of them. “You’re not dreaming.” _

_ His knees buckling, Gregson snorted. “Right. I’m definitely dreaming.” _

_ The hard pinch to his arm startled him. “Ouch, Holmes, that hurt! Why would you do that?” _

 

“You should,” Holmes muttered under his breath.

Forgetting what they had been talking about, Gregson threw him a confused look. “Should what?”

Sherlock ignored the question, instead slapping one of the papers in front of him with an open palm. “That’s it!” he exclaimed victoriously. “I got it!”

“What do you have?” Tommy asked, curious despite himself.

Holmes ignored him again, rushing out the door. “I’m going out,” he called over his shoulder. “Don’t wait up!”

Hearing the front door bang closed a minute later, Gregson sighed. “So much for respect,” he commented quietly as the kettle started boiling. He should’ve had Sherlock sign some sort of prenup or something, where he would agree to treat him respectfully.

He went about his day as normally as possible - doing paperwork, cleaning up a bit, fixing himself a cold lunch, and generally doing everything he could to take his mind off his ridiculous flatmate.

The flatmate, who even half an hour past midnight had yet to come home from wherever he had disappeared to. Tommy rolled over in his bed, twisting slightly in the thick sheets, unable to fall asleep. It seemed as if all the time he had spent sleeping the past few days was finally catching up to him, and his body was refusing to rest. It was because of this that he was still awake two hours later when Sherlock finally made it home.

Making his way down the stairs quietly, Gregson caught up to the man in their living room. “You have any luck?” he asked softly, sitting down on the comfortable couch.

Holmes looked up tiredly from where he was slumped in a chair in front of the hearth. “Why aren’t you asleep?” he countered with a question of his own.

“Couldn’t,” Tommy shrugged. Then, after a long minute of silence, he spoke again, “You didn’t answer my question.”

Sherlock pressed his lips together in a familiar show of annoyance. “I solved the case,” the Brit informed him without his usual bravado. “Then I was too wired to come back here and rest, so I went for a walk.”

Waiting for Holmes to continue, Gregson nodded.

The consultant picked up his narration again after a while. “I decided to go through Central Park around one in the morning,” he volunteered quietly. “I saw my old dealer.”

Gregson sucked in a sharp breath. “Did you buy anything?”

Sherlock shook his head.

Tommy narrowed his eyes. “Would you tell me if you did?”

The younger man looked torn. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I think so?”

Thinking the man’s answer honest enough, the lieutenant heaved himself up slowly. “Go to sleep, Holmes, you’re exhausted.”

Holmes let out a barely audible snort. “I don’t think I’ll be able to,” he admitted to Tommy’s surprise. Holmes rarely ever let himself appear so vulnerable.

Hoping he wouldn’t regret his next words, Gregson offered, “Come up with me. We can share a bed. I’ll make sure you don’t do something stupid.”

Sherlock looked up, meeting his eyes for the first time that night. “Is this a part of that lover schtick?” he questioned in suspicion.

“No,” Tommy denied, rolling his eyes. “This is a part of that  _ friend _ schtick.” At Holmes’ incredulous look, he offered the man a hand. “Come on, let’s get you to bed.”

The consultant followed him without complaint.

To Gregson’s immense surprise, it wasn’t awkward. He crawled back into his bed, while Sherlock undressed down to his underpants and curled up on his right side. Not even a minute later, the other man followed him under the covers, lying down so the two were facing each other.

“Good night,” Tommy bid Sherlock with a soft smile, sure the consultant wouldn’t return the sentiment.

Holmes huffed, burrowing deeper under the warm blankets. “Night,” he mumbled, closing his eyes. “I hope you don’t snore.”

The lieutenant lightly nudged his bed companion in the ribs in retribution. “I hope you don’t kick,” he retorted. “You seem like a person who would kick.”

Sherlock kicked him, not even opening his eyes.

Tommy snorted and turned off the bedside lamp. “I deserved that,” he mumbled sleepily, feeling his eyelids getting heavier. 

They were soon both asleep.

 

Gregson woke up slowly, sweating and a heavy weight on his chest. He hmmed contentedly, stretching his legs and causing his spine to crackle pleasantly.

“Disgusting,” mumbled a deep voice coming from somewhere near his awakening heart.

He rolled his eyes internally - not having enough energy yet to open his eyes and do it for real. “It’s normal for the spine to resettle after a period of rest, Sherlock,” he told the man who was currently using his chest as a pillow. “I thought you’d know that.”

Holmes hmmed, mumbling something unintelligible into Tommy’s sleep shirt.

“What was that?” the lieutenant asked, cracking his eyes open briefly.

Sherlock ignored his question, instead arching his back like a cat and cracking his own spine. “Ugh,” he groaned. “We slept late,” he informed Gregson, eyes closed and face still buried in the older man’s chest.

Tommy glanced at the clock, noticing it was already half past eleven. “You deduced that from the way your spine cracked?” he questioned skeptically.

Holmes snorted. “From the angle the sun is coming in at,” he explained, sounding amused.

“You haven’t even opened your eyes,” Gregson pointed out. “How do you-”

“Shush-” Sherlock interrupted him. “I’m trying not to think.”

His brow furrowing in confusion, Tommy questioned, “Do you mean, you’re  _ trying  _ to think?”

Holmes sighed loudly, heaving himself up off his chest. “No, I think all the time,” he explained. “Just then I was trying to keep my mind blank, because for the first time in forever I woke up with a slow brain. You just ruined it though.” And with another huff, Sherlock scrambled out of the bed and disappeared down the hallway.

Feeling like he’d misstepped and unsure about what he’d done wrong at the same time, Tommy closed his eyes in frustration. His flatmate was a hard nut to crack at the best of times and, having just woken up, he wasn’t in possession of all of his faculties.

Unlike Sherlock, he thought, who was apparently in the habit of waking up fully operational and who delighted in the rare instances that didn’t happen for him.

Sitting up slowly, Tommy rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He was going to go and apologise to the other man, hopefully getting back into his good books. Who knew? Maybe if he set a good example, he could teach Sherlock some manners as well.

 

_ Holmes shrugged. “You’re not dreaming, but I don’t know how to convince you.” _

_ “But how do you even know?” he asked desperately. “Maybe we’re both dreaming.” _

_ “Impossible,” Sherlock immediately dismissed the idea. “There’s no llama here.” _

_ “What?” Gregson queried incredulously, feeling like Lucy in the sky with diamonds. “What are you even talking about?” _

_ “Whenever I’m dreaming, there is a llama in my dream,” he disclosed as if it were a completely normal occurrence. _

_ Tommy wasn’t feeling any wiser though. “Why? I mean, how?” _

 

He caught up to the man in the kitchen, where he was sitting cross-legged on top of the table, staring at their fridge.

“Something happened?” Gregson asked him, glancing at the decidedly unnoteworthy kitchen appliance.

Holmes shrugged.

Losing patience with his flatmate’s childish behaviour, he went to open the fridge to see for himself what was going on. He reached for the handle but before he could pull, Sherlock was on him, dragging him away from the silver appliance.

“Don’t,” the consultant warned him.

Gregson was getting pissed. “Why? What did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything,” Holmes defended himself, folding his arms.

When Tommy tried to walk around him to reach for the refrigerator again, Holmes stepped in his way. “Holmes,” he rebuked irritably.

Sherlock raised a challenging eyebrow.

The last bit of his patience snapped and, using a move from the police academy, he forcibly removed the Brit from his way. Ignoring the pained hiss and a startled, “Hey!” from Sherlock, he pulled at the fridge handle and opened the door.

A blast of thick, milky-white liquid splashed him in the face, before slowly glopping down his clean shirt. 

Swiping at the mess now covering his mouth, he turned to growl at the other man. “What the hell?” he asked him, trying not to consider what the whitish substance might be.

Holmes looked unapologetic. “I was conducting an experiment,” he explained with a shrug. “It is very temperature-sensitive.”

“In our fridge?”

He shrugged again insolently. “Well, technically it’s my fridge.”

Tommy stormed over to him, poking him in the chest harshly. “Don’t even start with that, Holmes,” he warned him. “You just slept in  _ my  _ sheets, on top of  _ my  _ comforter, sharing  _ my  _ body heat!”

Sherlock finally had the decency to look a little cowed. “I warned you not to open it,” he mumbled half-heartedly.

Wiping the sticky substance from his face again, Gregson exploded. “This is seriously a nightmare!“ he shouted. “How in the world did Watson manage to live with you for so long? You are the worst flatmate and the most obnoxious fake boyfriend I could ever imagine!”

“Gregson-” Holmes tried, but Tommy raised his hand to forestall anything he might have said.

“Do you not want me here? Is that it?” the lieutenant demanded, his shoulders sagging. “Why did you ask me to live with you in the first place if my presence annoys you so much?”

The Londoner’s eyes flashed in irritation. “Don’t blame this on me; you were the one to bring it up first!”

“Wasn’t.” Tommy argued.

“Were too,” Holmes returned mockingly. “You offered to be my pretend boyfriend - it was your idea.”

Gregson shoved at the irritating man in front of him, pushing him off balance. “We both know that was just an excuse, Sherlock!” he shouted. “It was a completely unnecessary and ridiculous charade from the beginning.”

“My father-”

“Doesn’t care!” Tommy finished for him. “It doesn’t matter to him why you wanted to move to New York; he’d still be keeping an eye on you whether I was here or not. Hell, that damned van is still out front.”

Sherlock huffed, eyes looking at something on the floor. “He didn’t believe me anyway,” he said. “In fact, it only made him more suspicious.”

Tommy shook his head, snorting at the ridiculousness of the situation. “What are we even doing here, Holmes?”

The younger man shrugged helplessly.

They didn’t speak for a while, just breathing heavily as the adrenaline of their fight slowly left their systems. Gregson felt a drop of Sherlock’s suspicious goop slide down his neck and shivered. “What is this stuff anyway?” he asked. “Smells… organic.”

Sherlock winced. “Yeah, you might want to go and wash that off.”

“What is it?” he queried, eyes narrowed.

“Um,” the infuriating detective hesitated, and Gregson felt his stomach turn. 

“Never mind, I don’t want to know,” he claimed. “Don’t tell me.”

Holmes looked relieved.

“I’m going to get a shower and throw out this shirt,” Tommy told him. “Meanwhile, you,” he pointed at Holmes, “are going to clean up this mess.”

Then, not waiting for a response, he left. 

Once upstairs, he couldn’t get under the shower fast enough, so he just quickly shucked his clothes and left them in the middle of his bedroom before rushing to the bathroom.

“Please let it not be semen,” he whispered to himself as he washed the coagulating goop from his thinning hair. “Anything but that, please.”

He closed his eyes, letting the stream of warm water pour over his face, when the memory suddenly hit him.

 

_ “When I used to be on drugs,” Holmes began, “I would get easily disoriented and was not able to discern between a dream and the reality. It often got me into trouble. So in one of my lucid moments, I came up with a technique that would help me recognise when I was dreaming.” He paused, looking deep in thought. “I think it might’ve had something to do with the film Inception…” _

_ “Why a llama?” asked Gregson, deeply curious. _

_ “I probably saw a picture of it on a backpack somewhere, I don’t know,” Sherlock shrugged. “Anyway, it took a lot of mediating and some trial and error, but in the end I managed to teach my brain to always include a llama in each dream I’m having.” _

_ Gregson nodded slowly, looking around the swirling room. “So… no llamas here then?” he asked carefully. _

_ “No. No llamas.” _

 

Gregson spluttered as water went up his nose, startling him out of the flashback. Huh. This was the first time he’d actually consciously remembered something from the last moments of his past - future - life, and it was disconcerting.

“Llamas,” he muttered. “Only Holmes, seriously.”

He shook his head, running a hand through his hair to check for any lingering bits of the definitely-not-semen and, not finding any, turned off the shower.

Dressing himself in a new pair of trousers and a clean shirt, he eventually made it back downstairs. Entering the kitchen cautiously, he was encountered with a surprising sight.

“You cleaned,” he breathed in shock, addressing Sherlock, who was currently washing his hands at the sink.

“You told me to,” Holmes deadpanned, shaking off droplets of water from his hands, before wiping them on a nearby dishcloth.

“Yeah,” Tommy agreed numbly. “And you listened.”

The consultant gave him a careless shrug. “You hurt my arm the last time I didn’t listen.”

Wincing, Gregson apologised, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-”

“It wasn’t- you didn’t-” Sherlock sighed. “I’m being dramatic; you didn’t hurt me.”

They fell into an uneasy silence.

“So, uh,” Tommy began - a false start. He cleared his throat and started again, “So, I think I had a flashback in the shower.”

Holmes raised an eyebrow. “What did you see?”

“You,” the lieutenant blurted out, mentally running through his recollection.

Sherlock acquired a really queer expression for a second, before bursting out in laughter. “Let me get this straight - you were in the shower and you dreamt of me?”

“And a lot of swirling weed,” Gregson added, a little discomfited by his friend’s amusement. “And a llama.”

Shaking his head, Holmes declared, “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were high.”

Taking into consideration what he had just said, Tommy wasn’t even offended. “But you do know better,” he implored hopefully.

Sherlock nodded. “I had the same memory two days ago,” he admitted. “The swirling attic and the llama discussion both.”

Gregson flopped down onto a chair, running his fingers through his still wet hair. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“You would definitely have thought I was high,” Holmes shrugged.

Tommy snorted. “Yeah, you’re not wrong.” He paused. “How are you doing with that anyway? You okay?”

The Brit tilted his head in consideration. “Could use a bit of distraction, if you know what I mean, but other than that, I’m fine.”

Raising an eyebrow, unimpressed, Gregson guessed, “You mean sex.”

“Yeah,” the younger man agreed with a lewd look up and down Tommy’s body. “You up for it, being my pretend boyfriend and all?”

He stood up. “Yeah, I’m not doing that,” he snorted. “I’m done playing games. You want something from me, ask me straight.”

He was already almost out the door, when Holmes spoke up, “Have sex with me.”

Tommy paused, his back to the other man. “What?”

“Let’s have sex.” A pause and then, “Shag, do the horizontal tango, play couch quail, bang-”

“Yeah, I got it,” Gregson interrupted with an exasperated grin, turning around. “Couch quail, really?”

Giving him a shrug, Holmes stepped closed. “So?” he asked with a flap of his hand. “I’m asking you straight.”

“And this is not a part of that pretend boyfriend schtick?” he wanted to make sure.

“No, this is a part of that friend schtick,” Sherlock answered, an excited glint in his eye. He looked like he’d just come up with the most disgusting and unnecessary experiment Gregson could imagine. 

“Maybe more?” Tommy questioned, voice quiet.

“Maybe more,” Holmes confirmed, before looking pointedly at him. “Though I stand by what I said - marriage is an unnatural-”

“Arrangement which forces its participants into an unhealthy monogamy, I know,” the older man finished for him.

“Good.” Sherlock paused. “So? How about it?”

“I, uh, yeah sure,” Tommy finally agreed, trying to sound nonchalant. Going by the spark in the other man’s eye, he hadn’t succeeded.

“Come on then.” Holmes motioned for him to follow, leading the way upstairs and to his bedroom. Tommy did as he was told, kind of feeling like he was hallucinating all of it. Maybe he  _ was  _ on drugs?

Once the door to Sherlock’s lair had closed behind them, Gregson didn’t even have time to look around before he was jumped on. A pair of surprisingly strong arms wound around his waist as firm lips pressed against his.

“Wait,” the lieutenant mumbled against his friend’s mouth. “Shouldn’t we-”

“Shut up,” Holmes growled. “And take off your kit.”

Not knowing what he had been about to say anyway, Tommy replied with a barely intelligible, “Right.” before gasping as his lover moved his lips to suck on the sensitive skin underneath his right ear.

A pair of insistent hands began tugging at the waistband of his trousers, unbuckling his belt and sliding the zipper open.

“Jesus fuck,” Gregson swore as a dexterous hand searched out his erection and squeezed. “Bed.”

“Hmm?”

“Bed, Sherlock,” he insisted.

It took them several minutes to make it to the bed as they struggled out of their clothing, hands running over newly exposed skin, clutching at hair, and scratching against tattoos.

When Holmes finally had him pressed against the mattress, the younger man’s weight fully on top of him, Tommy felt his head swim. Hooking a leg over the back of his lover’s calf, he arched upwards. “Come on, Sherlock, get to it,” he emphasised, voice raspy.

“Getting to it,” Holmes whispered, breath washing across the nipple he had just been busily laving with his tongue.

His head spun.

 

_ His head spun as his eyes searched in vain for a spot to focus on. “I think your feet are swirling,” he remarked, pointing at Holmes’ shoes. _

_ “Huh,” Holmes looked down at his shoes. “They are.” _

_ Soon, the room was spinning faster and faster around them, the green of the marijuana plants washing away into an ugly brownish colour. “Holmes!” he cried out, having trouble suppressing his fear. “What’s going on?” _

_ Sherlock looked unbothered. “No clue, but I’m sure I’ll figure it out eventually.” _

_ “Not if we get washed down this damned sink of yours,” Tommy countered, reaching out a hand in search of something stable to hold onto. _

_ Next thing he knew, he was turning and twirling and spinning, and the blurred colours around him were hurting his eyes. _

_ “Sherlock,” he tried to call out, but the air left his lungs without a sound. Then everything suddenly stopped, and he was left gasping for air, feeling hot and uncomfortable as he was slowly brought out of his slumber next to his ex-wife. _

 

Gregson panted as he came a few minutes later, his lover’s ministrations having brought him to an exceptionally strong orgasm.

“You’re good at that,” he commented breathlessly, his nails digging into Sherlock’s back.

Holmes grunted into his shoulder. “It’s been said,” he boasted, sounding a little wrecked himself.

Tommy didn’t call him on it, content to just lie there and breathe.

“Say, Sherlock,” he mumbled once they’d cooled down, turning his head to press his lips against the side of his lover’s head and sniffing lightly.

“Hmm?” the other man hmmed distractedly.

“Do you smell weed?”

Holmes snorted. “Shush, I’m trying not to think.”

Gregson pressed a kiss into Sherlock’s hair and kept quiet.

**Author's Note:**

> The Matthildur case Sherlock solved during his flight was taken from the book Strange Shores by Arnaldur Indridason. It was actually his detective Erlendur who solved it but he had kept the resolution to himself in respect of the people involved.


End file.
